I think I've gotten worse at writing in the three years since I posted my last fic. Jean/Logan crap, couldn't get it to go in the direction I wanted, but here you go–hopefully at least one person likes this so I know it was worth posting.


Jean Grey was in love with Scott Summers. Really. Sure, he was all she had ever known, but she knew this was how love was supposed be, right? Stability was important, and he gave her that. He told her that she was beautiful and that he loved her, and every so often he would surprise her with breakfast in bed or some other equally sweet gesture. And she loved him back. Really.

Scott had told her on more than one occasion that he felt they were fated to be together. Jean, however, did not believe in fate. In her mind, humans chose their own destiny with each decision they made. Jean was a woman whose greatest fear was making the wrong choice, looking back, and regretting what might have been. She was petrified that she would wake up one day and realize there was a whole alternate life she could have lived, like there was another Jean who had died without getting a chance to experience her reality.

Jean knew she was in trouble the moment Logan walked into her life. Logan and Scott could not have been more different. Scott was everything that was, but as soon as Logan flashed her that crooked smile of his she saw in him everything that might have been, the path she would always regret not taking, and it terrified her.

Jean, ever the good girl, tried to convince herself that in this case, her relationship with Scott was the best possible reality. Her body, however, seemed to think differently. It made sure that whenever she brushed up against Logan in passing or watched him deftly maneuver his predator's body in the Danger Room, a tingling sensation in her traitorous lower belly told her, "This will forever be only what might have been. Are you sure you're okay with that?"


Whenever Jean couldn't sleep at night, she would head down to the kitchen so as to not awaken Scott. Invariably, Logan was there, leaning against the counter and drinking whiskey–straight, of course. (He was of the opinion that alcohol–beer excluded–was not real alcohol unless it hurt going down.) Early on, Jean would back out of the kitchen immediately, pretending she had made a wrong turn somewhere on the way. But as she grew more comfortable in Logan's presence–or, possibly, began to crave it–she found herself sticking around for a glass of water or a midnight snack. Jean had once asked Rogue, the mansion's expert on all things Logan, if he spent every night in the kitchen. She had shrugged and replied that Logan had a lot of nightmares. Jean wondered what he dreamed about. She wondered if he ever took a break from his nightmares dreamed of her like she dreamed of him.

One such night, Jean padded down to the kitchen and was pleased to find the Wolverine in his usual spot. "Evenin', Jeannie," he grunted.

"Logan," she acknowledged. "You going to drink all that?"

Surprised, he passed her the ever-present whiskey bottle. She poured herself a glass–on the rocks, she wasn't quite sure she was ready to take it straight–and took a sip.

"Never had you pegged for a whiskey girl," he remarked, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips.

"I'm not," she admitted sheepishly, trying to stifle a cough of esophageal discomfort.

"So what's the occasion?"

"Fought with Scott earlier. No big deal," she said dismissively. "Hey...Logan, do you believe in fate?"

He snorted. "Nice subject change. And no, I don't. Thinkin' that fate does all the work for you makes a guy lazy. I make my own destiny, thanks." Wolverine extended his claws briefly to accentuate this last point.

"Hm." She took this in and downed the rest of her whiskey, spluttering a bit as it burned a path to her stomach. Logan eyed her carefully, waiting to see what she would say next. Instead of continuing, however, she simply gestured again to the whiskey. He refilled her glass and watched as she took this one in a single gulp, too.

"You okay, Red?" he prodded, slightly apprehensive at this departure from Jean's normal responsible drinking habits.

"Why haven't you kissed me?" she asked suddenly.

"'Scuse me?"

"You used to try to kiss me all the time. You don't anymore. Why?"

He chuckled. "You didn't like it."

"Yes I did!" she exclaimed. "I did, but I wasn't supposed to. But you were supposed to keep trying. You were supposed to make my choice for me, because I don't want to have to wonder what might have been anymore..."

Logan was next to her in one long stride, taking her chin in his hand. "Just say the word and I'm yours, Jeannie. You know that."

She pouted. "And you know I can't do that, not while Scott is around."

Logan let her go and sighed. "Can't make this choice for you, Red. I'm goin' to bed."

As he walked up the stairs with infuriating calm, she grabbed the whiskey by the neck and took a long pull. Maybe it was the booze talking–had it even been in her system long enough to get her drunk, or was this strange swimming feeling in her head the result of being around Logan for too long?–but she was slowly beginning to realize that maybe, just maybe, she had picked the wrong reality.


Jean spent the next week trying to avoid Logan, somewhat embarrassed by how freely she had spoken that night. She and Scott quickly made up–they always did–but something felt a bit off, and she was pretty sure she knew what it was. She couldn't help encountering the Wolverine on occasion, and every time she saw him it became just a little harder to keep her composure...not, she eventually realized, out of shame, but out of desire. She slowly began to allow herself to fantasize about what things would be like if she were with Logan instead of Scott, and it thrilled her, sexually and emotionally.

Exactly one week later, she woke suddenly in the middle of the night, one thought running through her head: I have to know. She flew out of the room like a woman possessed and down to the kitchen where, as always, Logan was keeping his nighttime vigil over the liquor cabinet. Without speaking, she ran to him, threw her arms around his neck, and desperately pressed her lips to his. His response was just as she'd fantasized–coarse, greedy, almost animalistic in nature. When they finally broke apart, he grinned. "So you've made your decision, have you?"

Jean bit her lip. "I want you," she said, voice thick with desire. "I need you. I can't go through life not knowing..."

Logan shrugged, his attempt at nonchalance failing to mask the arousal burning in his eyes. "Then I'm all yours, Jeannie." He took her roughly in his arms and they proceeded to turn what might have been into reality.